Hearts and Minds
by somethinguntraceable
Summary: "What is worth doing hurts, and this is worth doing."  Luke Rattigan, 10, Rose.


**Title:** Hearts and Minds  
**Length:** Multi-chaptered; this chapter: 2,228 words**  
Pairings/Characters:** Luke Rattigan, the Doctor (10), Rose Tyler. Couples therein? _Maybe_, eventually, depending on how sick a mind I have. Currently gen though.  
**Summary:** What is worth doing hurts, and this is worth doing.  
**Genre:** The usual odd assortments with me: angst, subtext, introspection. Emotional psychology. Character explorations._  
_**Rating:** M**  
Warnings:** _I can't promise this won't turn shippy_, and if it does, you may want to watch out for a potential age! squick with Luke. In other news, expect lots of teacher/student-esque subtext (intended as strictly emotional at this point but, er, may end up going elsewhere); character introspection; Luke being amoral; 10 and Rose being OOC; and poorly thought-up planets/aliens for them to adventure on/with.  
**Set:** Timey-wimey! Doctor's timeline: end of S4, minus regeneration. Luke's timeline: just after events in _The Poison Sky_ occur, minus Luke's martyrdom. Because really. The Doctor's damn stupid, but there's no way in hell Martha and Donna would just stand there and _let _him basically commit suicide to prove a point about giving people second chances. My AU assumes that Martha yanked the explosive device from his hands, set it to automatic and sent it up without him, as any sensible person would have done. Thus null-and-voiding the need for _anybody_ to die.

**A/N: **So after rewatching _The Sontaran Stratagem/The Poison Sky_, which was considerably less awful that I remember it being, I couldn't get this AU of Luke Rattigan as a companion out of my head. So I've decided to inflict it on you, as well.

**A/N 2:** I also recently watched _The Social Network_ and half of my brain is very much with that gorgeous fictionalization of Mark Zuckerberg, so if my Luke feels like the Zuck, I apologize. They're certainly similar to write, but Luke is a lot looser, I think; less bitter and more manic. Mark would never, ever shout down a room full of people about his intellectual superiority over them; Luke does it with a gun in hand and a glassy-eyed blankness that suggests there is something in his mind shouting twice as loudly as he is.

"_It's not easy is it? Being clever. You look at the world and you _connect _things. Random things. You think, why can't anybody else see it? The rest of the world is so_ slow._"_

"_Yeah."_

"_And you're all on your own." _

"_I know." _

* * *

Chapter One

In the end, Luke can't bring himself to leave.

The Rattigan Academy, for all its associated memories, is the only place he has ever accidentally called home. Even empty, it feels familiar, and so Luke haunts its corridors against his better judgment, all the while knowing he should not. Before long the police will come looking for him, and this will be the first place they check, but until then, he spreads himself through the academy like water, leaving tokens of his existence in every room. His contraptions greet him at every turn; marvellous machines strung up to ceilings and sunken into platforms, and Luke is generous with the time he does not have, checking the performance parameters of each to see if any damage has been done by the events of the evening. None has: in the end, these jumbles of wires and circuitry are a hundred times more loyal than any of his students. They follow his orders, complete his instructions, and what they lack in imagination, Luke possesses amply to compensate.

That's all it would have taken, in the end: a little imagination, a little bravery. Instead his students had shied away like children, like _adolescents_—acting their age. Such intelligent minds reciting recycled clichés about familial love and loyalty to disguise their fear of being different, of rejecting the imposed, empty scripts. They weren't afraid of seeing the world burn: they were afraid of recognizing the necessity of burning it. But Luke knows that what is worth doing hurts. This was worth doing.

When night falls, he settles in the living room. It has always been his favourite area in all the sprawl of Rattigan Academy; the one with the most windows and empty space in which to think. The machines here, too, are generally the most interesting; this is the front entrance, after all, and Luke is nothing if not strategic in promoting the institution that bears his name. The gravity sim, in particular, has always captivated his attention: there's a problem with lag that no one has yet been able to fix, too fascinating to be frustrating, and when he can't sleep he goes back to it, pulling up the main function like reaching for a security blanket.

This is how the Doctor finds him.

"What are you doing?" Luke demands, pressing a shaking palm to the wooden door of the TARDIS. A fleck of paint comes away under his fingertips, sky blue against his skin. "Why would you offer to take me to outer space, when you _know_ what I'm likely to do there?" Luke himself isn't yet sure what that is, but he knows it probably won't fit into the Doctor's narrow definition of _good_, and he wants this too badly to stand being toyed with. "Look at me; answer me! What—are you—_doing_?"

"Saving somebody," the Doctor says, and it comes out strangely soft and surprised; like he's as confused as Luke is.

The inside of the TARDIS is nothing like its outside. When viewed from within, the incognito spaceship becomes something organic, alive; ventilation like rattling breathing and a pulse of light like a heartbeat beneath broad eyelids of metal.

"Luke, this is Rose Tyler. Rose, this is Luke."

There is no extension of hands; no awkward shake. Rose Tyler is pretty and unmistakably human, standing at an angle from the door with her arms crossed over her chest. Luke looks straight past her.

"Don't touch anything; not a single thing," the Doctor orders tersely as he starts forward. "You might think you know what these levers do, but if you're not careful, we'll find ourselves in the middle of World War V or on the fourth moon of Kanoon. Even the TARDIS can't withstand _those_ atmospheric gases; and I like my ship blue, thank you. Although I suppose she _could_ do with a paint job…last one was after 1789; the Prise de la Bastille left _terrible _scuffmarks on the door…"

The Doctor's monologue is ceaseless, and after five minutes, Luke can no longer hear it over the sound of his ears ringing. Although he usually does not like touching things, here he finds himself brushing his fingers over every surface he comes to, as though the sensation of skin on metal will be enough to surmount his intellectual doubts about the reality of the space around him. It's painful to admit, but this is a world defined by empirical logic, and Luke's habit of calculating area by width and height does not _fit_ within the TARDIS's curved, impossible interior. It leaves him speechless, uncertain, the roof of his mouth like a dune in a desert as he licks at his lips with his tongue and tries to construct a phrase with a mind that feels shell-shocked. Everything he has ever wanted is suddenly before him, and the effect is embarrassingly paralyzing.

"Okay, you've answered _what_. Now answer _why_."

It comes out sounding just as defiant and demanding as Luke intends it, but when the Doctor's eyes climb to his face, they pause, briefly, on the ends of his sleeves, and Luke shoves his hands in his pockets, suddenly aware that he is visibly shaking. Sometimes he forgets that he has a physical body, which accounts for why he sometimes forgets to control it.

"Oh, you know," the Doctor answers, all airy insouciance, moving over to what Luke assumes to be the ship's console as though he has noticed nothing. "Rose thought things were getting a little quiet here, and we could always use the company. You didn't seem too busy." His voice hardens, but stays careless, inputting a sequence into one of the console's devices as he continues. "Anyway, I thought you might need a trip around the galaxy to reminisce about while serving your jail sentence."

Luke makes a face, a mixture of anger, fear and dismissal that he doesn't think to conceal. "That won't be a problem. My lawyers will handle it."

"I don't think so," the Doctor demurs, not ungently, suddenly glancing up from his tinkering. "A _not guilty_ won't stop UNIT. If they even let you get as far as a trial."

The fear is harder to conceal, this time, and the Doctor makes a sound like a whistle and steps away from the console to look towards him, considering.

"You've done your research," he says, quietly, and beneath the panic Luke registers a blank fury. Does he think Luke such an amateur, then? Incapable of operating a search engine? He wonders if he will have access to a computer wherever UNIT takes him.

He wonders if he is being over-optimistic, wondering where UNIT will take him.

"Hang on a sec; I thought UNIT was meant to be top secret."

"Oh, for a mind like his, nothing is top secret. _Well_…nothing stored in binary, at least. The other things, though; I imagine they're a bit trickier. Am I right, Luke?"

"_What_?" The interruption escalates Luke's panic into irritation, and it bleeds into his voice as he forces his eyes back into focus. He does not know what they have been saying; doesn't care; finds himself suddenly, abruptly furious: he came to the TARDIS to dream, and then the Doctor started throwing words like _jail sentence _and _UNIT _around. It's like being betrayed by the Sontarans all over again; like watching something perfect disintegrate from the inside out. All the time and the passion he'd poured into ATMOS, all to be mistaken, in the end, with just another human: disposable, and ordinary.

The Doctor inspects his expression with a mixture of satisfaction and grimness.

"Finished asking questions? Ready to set off?"

Luke nods, spasmodically. His panic has not quietened any and he doesn't trust himself to speak yet, but instead of moving back to the console, the Doctor remains where he is, watching him steadily.

"Before we go, there are some rules that you should know about. Conditions. Even for a short trip; which is all this is."

_Rules_, Luke thinks gratefully; rules, he can follow. He thinks of the Sontarans again, of their military precision, and how remarkably easy it was to append each sentence with _sir_ after he had accepted the awe-inspiring superiority of these alien beings. Luke is the world's biggest atheist, but this is one of the few things he believes in: structures and policies; the set of possible behaviours assigned to each mathematical number. It is easy to have faith after witnessing the logic and the breadth of the formal system they combine to create, and this train of thought calms him down enough for speech.

"And they are?"

The Doctor doesn't hesitate. "Well, for starters, no more murder."

Surprisingly, the word hurts. It's not a term Luke's ever had applied to himself before, and he associates it with a coarser cruelty than the kind he knows he is capable of.

"I haven't killed _anybody_," he protests, eyes going wide as though practicing for the witness box.

"Oh, and how do you come to that conclusion?" the Doctor asks airily, avoiding his gaze in favour of Rose Tyler's. Luke does not turn to inspect it; can imagine her expression too well, and doesn't care to see it."Because the deaths that _you_ caused were brought about by the push of a button rather than the squeezing of a trigger?"

Luke's reply is halting, but stubborn; a hesitation between defensiveness and defiance. "Yes."

Rose Tyler, content to be scathing in silence up till now, makes a sound like a cat being stepped on. "_Hang on_." Luke flinches, but doesn't look around. "So according to _you_,ordering someone's death isn't murder?"

"That's right," Luke answers thinly. He still doesn't turn to look at her; has no interest in justifying himself to another human. Her reaction is so predictable, so provincial. He appeals to the Doctor instead. "I mean, what about the atomic bomb? You can't tell me dropping the atomic bomb was murder; it was a tactical decision, and a good one, I might add. Well, I…made…tactical decisions, that's all."

"Doctor," Tyler says eventually, angrily, when the silence that follows goes on too long. The Doctor shrugs.

"If he believes it, Rose, I can't change his mind. But just so we're clear—" He redirects his gaze to Luke again. "No murder. And that includes pushing buttons and giving orders. If anything you do results in someone's _death_, no matter how indirectly, I'm giving you to UNIT myself."

It's calmly said, even quietly so, but any rebuttal he might have offered dries up in Luke's throat. He nods.

"Good," the Doctor says, before carefully shifting his gaze again. "Does that satisfy, Rose?"

"Yeah, fine." It comes out disgusted, reluctant, from between what Luke imagines to be clenched teeth, but the Doctor acts like he does not notice, and turns back to Luke with all of his previous cheerfulness.

"Secondly; importantly. You do what I tell you, when I tell you. Someone's life usually depends on it."

This is much easier to agree to, and Luke does so almost immediately, a little breathlessly. "Yes. Yes, alright." _Sir_, he almost adds,but thinks of the Sontarans suddenly and doesn't; appends it mentally instead, abruptly and inexplicably confused.

"Finally. No more cleverness."

Luke swallows, uncertain. "I can't help that."

"You can me with around," the Doctor corrects, and he is sounding stern again, though not in the same way as earlier. "Luke Rattigan, you are no longer the smartest person in the room. How does _that_ feel?"

After a moment, Luke shrugs, unsure how to respond. "What's wrong with being clever?"

"Nothing, generally," the Doctor admits. "But with _you_, Luke, you don't seem able to separate being clever from being…" He seems to hesitate; walks back to the console and starts to push at buttons again. "What I think is that _you_ think that empathy and logic have little to do with each other. I'd rather have you kind than clever for this trip, Luke, if you don't mind."

"But I'm not kind," Luke says finally, shaken, into the silence.

"You'll manage," the Doctor answers, and before Luke can think of a reply, the floor beneath him suddenly shifts. Despite himself, he shouts; skids sideways and catches himself on a waist-high metal railing that he hasn't noticed up till now. Rose Tyler is already clutching on to it. They exchange an expressionless glance, too distracted to remember to be hostile.

"What—"

"_Just hold on_," Tyler advises sharply, over the sound of the TARDIS's sudden whirring.

"Everyone hanging on to something?" The Doctor inquires to their left, and Luke looks over to see the alien laughing, exhilarated, clinging two-handed to one of the console's many joysticks. "Sorry; she's not often like this."

"She's always like this!" Tyler disagrees. She's laughing too, and it makes Luke's silence seem comparatively loud. After a moment watching them, he shuts his eyes. When he next opens them, he will be far from Earth, far from 'home'; that small, empty planet with all its people and all its water. A prison far more secure than anything UNIT could hope to devise, and Luke has escaped it, not once, but twice. In his mind's eye, he imagines it dwindling in the distance: a small ball growing smaller, more insignificant; and smiles.

* * *

**A/N: **Pre-empting some quibbling over characterization decisions I made: Luke as I write him is terrified of jail; terrified of any kind of imprisonment, in the way that people with too much freedom too young so often are. But god, for someone who obviously resent authority, he was remarkably respectful with the Sontarans, and this is where I get his love of rules from. It's a formal structure for starters, so, right up his alley; it also allows him to treat social interactions like a mathematical problem set, predicting outcomes based on variables according to a pre-existing system, which gives Luke an advantage in a field where he's usually horrendously out of his depth. How does this factor in with aforementioned resentfulness of authority? Luke's fine with being an underling, on the condition that a) he is being both used and useful and b) his superior is exactly that, superior. The Doctor ticks both of these boxes, and Luke intellectually (if not yet emotionally) recognizes this. So…that's where that comes from.

**A/N 2: **I'm in the middle of trying to shake off a rather long-standing block, so if the prose sounds awkward to you at points, or my tone jumps a bit (the latter, I have tried to rectify, but probably without success), please be forgiving. Which is not to say, don't point it out to me! Only that some gentleness would be appreciated XD


End file.
